Sound Effects
by the.clairvoyance
Summary: And it is purposeful, Sherlock knows, because this child is the spawn of something unearthly and while the consulting doctor doesn't care for such inanities as religion he may have to reconsider that there is a Hell after all.


**Sound Effects**

**Declaimer:** I own nothing related to _Sherlock_ nor do I profit from publishing this piece of fiction. However, I do own all original characters.

**Pairing:** Sherlock / John (Johnlock).

**Genre:** Family / Humour / Romance.

**Rating:** K+ due to a single curse word.

**Summary:** And it is purposeful, Sherlock knows, because this child is the spawn of something unearthly and while the consulting doctor doesn't care for such inanities as religion he may have to reconsider that there is a Hell after all.

**Author's Note:** The story takes place in the present tense but in an alternate universe, which hopefully will suspend your disbelief.

* * *

><p>The sound that a jet engine produces is about one hundred and thirteen decibels.<p>

A pig is capable of squealing at a decibel of one hundred and fifteen.

There is a recording that states a blue whale can produce a song with a whopping one hundred and eighty-eight decibel.

Despite these proven scientific statistics, Sherlock Holmes has never been surer of something in his life: his daughter is the loudest thing alive. An incredibly small yet illogical nonetheless part of him, which is no doubt a byproduct of the god-awful screech his daughter has been belting out, seriously considers that the sound barrier may shatter any moment now. She moves in his arms, obviously agitated, with her little limbs flailing about in what can only be described as a deliberate seizure. And it is purposeful, Sherlock knows, because this child is the spawn of something unearthly and while the consulting doctor doesn't care for such inanities as religion he may have to reconsider that there is a Hell after all.

A little fist flings itself upwards, nearly colliding with Sherlock's chin and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from reacting aloud.

"Yes, yes, I'm aware that you aren't happy; you need not screech to remind me. I have fed you, I have changed you, and I have coddled you. As well, you are not presenting with any signs of illness so you have absolutely no reason to continue deafening the whole of London, young lady. This would be a much more pleasant experience if you would just stop crying."

From across the room, in the entrance to the kitchen, John stands with an annoyingly amused face on. Sherlock damns that face; smug and humoured and handsome all at once. He glares but it doesn't seem to have the same effect of intimidation when there is a spastic seven-month old attempting to clamber out of his arms.

"Have I ever told you that your expectations of children are exceptionally low? I mean to have a seven month old not be able to communicate her needs to you vocally is evidence enough of our failure to parent. I'm surprised she isn't fluent in Latin by now, actually."

It doesn't take much deductive skill for Sherlock to tell that John is amused and barely concealing it behind sarcasm.

And it's bloody fucking annoying.

"_Fine_," the word explodes from the consulting detective's mouth like a curse. "I surrender!"

In a moment Sherlock finds himself sailing across the flat in a total of three large strides whilst lifting his wailing daughter off of his hip and upwards so that she is parallel to him before plopping her into John's empty arms. Surprised but recovering quickly, in no small apart due to his former army training, John scoops up the scrambling child before she has a chance to squirm right out of his arms.

Frustrated but relieved, a shudder runs down Sherlock's spine like electricity, as if thrusting the little girl into the other man's released him from some sort of spell. John figures perhaps it does; Sherlock is naturally gifted with many talents but it appears that child-rearing is going to be more of a learned ability. He lifts the tiny child, whose no more than fifteen pounds and just twenty-two inches in length, to his chest so that she can rest the delicate shell of her ear to his chest plate. To his delight the doctor has found that his heartbeat calms her down almost instantly.

And suddenly the wails die down to whimpers and disintegrate into hiccups.

If looks could kill then John would be Scotland Yard's next case.

"_How_ on Earth did you manage that?"

"Affection; you should try it some time."

Unimpressed and perfectly fine with not being the bigger person in the situation, Sherlock scoffs and plucks the small fleece blanket from the couch, throwing it through the air and watching as it collides with John's face, solid but cushioned. He grins at his husband's scowl.

"Very adult, Sherlock; what a wonderful role model you are."

The consulting doctor sniggers, agreeing but not wanting to give John the upper hand. His gaze falls to the bundle in the other man's arms, now resting still as she is swaddled in her blanket. The purple linen wrapped around her tiny frame fosters the idea that she is something serene and innocent, which Sherlock knows better than to let deceive him considering her eardrum piercing vocals and stubborn as well as self-indulgent personality.

Whenever he makes statements about the young girl being possessed by something preternatural or claims that she will be the sole reason that the Yard stays in business because Sherlock will certainly go mad and commit a rash of murders if she continues to spit up on him, ends up drenching him whilst being bathed, or continues to start food fights whenever he tries to feed her. Actually, he realizes, perhaps it will be John the source of Sherlock's crime spree considering he is the one who stands idly by, laughing and snapping photographs and being otherwise incredibly useless.

"There you are, little miss." John murmurs to the child in his arm, his expression softening noticeably and despite himself, Sherlock finds his annoyance dissolve in milliseconds.

The doctor continues, his voice downy, calming even the consulting detective who is now watching him intently. "You're just tired aren't you, love?"

He drops a kiss on her head and brings her over to Sherlock, lanky body outstretched over the couch, and shifts her into the other man's possession. Preening his neck, the dark-haired man presses his lips to the fair-haired man's; barely touching.

"Thank you, John."

"_Gawh_," a small voice gurgles from somewhere in the background.

Both men turn to look and their attention is immediately drawn to the playpen that had taken up residence in the living room of the flat seven months ago. Without saying a thing John goes to the playpen and lifts the babbling infant into his arms. Previously the child had been pleasantly unaware of the havoc being wrecked in the flat but is now making its presence known by stringing watery sounds and reaching out to John.

"Do you understand now?" Sherlock inquires from the couch, his large hand spread across most of their daughter's small back.

For a moment John is quizzical and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Of course not," he adjusts the little girl as she sighs in her sleep.

"William has no trouble communicating his problems to either of us whereas this little demon is compelled to cause indefinite trauma to my eardrums by shrieking whenever something is not quite right."

Cradling their cooing son, John replies with a tone lacking any trace of sarcasm: "So it's hereditary then?"

And Sherlock remembers why he hates his husband sometimes.

"I hope you find yourself clever."

"Oh I do."

"Good," Sherlock responds testily as he lifts his long legs to make room on the couch. "Someone should."

John occupies the newly vacant space and rubs his son's back in an attempt to sooth him. It's like this often with William, a very well-behaved and happy baby, which makes it easy for him and Sherlock to relax together with the baby awake. He contrasts with his twin greatly in this regard, in most regards, who is by nature a very talkative and eager child. Unlike William, who strings together semi-coherent words, their daughter would simply exclaim loud and expressive sounds. William was much more subtle, less animated, but equally as happy to engage with others, which John knew pleased Sherlock despite his claims to the contrary.

The ex-army doctor knows how his colleague turned friend turned husband views himself, positives and negatives alike, and how he wants a stronger sense of normalcy in their children's lives than what is common in their own. As well, John knows that despite all of Sherlock's vocal and frequent complaints about raising a stubborn willed spitfire of a daughter that he adores her terribly and that he is very much wrapped around her itty-bitty little finger. Even now, sitting on the opposite side of the couch, Sherlock is staring in awe of Anna, amazed by her in this moment just as much as he been the first time he glimpsed at the initial ultrasound of their twins-to-be.

However, John will not deny that Sherlock and William had hit off splendidly.

"Fa'her." William burbles, the word encased in saliva and falling off of an awkward tongue. "Wan' fa'her."

No matter how many times he hears it, Sherlock still looks to his son with concealed surprise that only the doctor can tell is there. The idea that someone other than John, Hell even John sometimes, wants him still manages to wow the consulting detective; he hears the little boy call out for him and it makes him feel as though he's done something right.

The two men make the switch with a practice ease that comes with late nights and rushed days: Anna shifts into her dad's arms and William into his father's.

"Good evening, William." Sherlock addresses the baby in his arms. "You know you and your sister never do seem to sleep at the same time, which is surprising because when she's awake everyone is."

Silently, John agrees.

So does William.

"You're dad seems to think that I'm to blame for that but I have a birth certificate with her name on it that proves my gene pool has nothing to do with her lack of volume control."

It occurs to the consulting doctor that although their children are adopted they are shockingly alike to John and himself to the point where it was almost unnerving. William with locks of thick, dark hair mirrored his father and on the contrary Anna had fine golden wisps of hair not dissimilar to her dad's. As well, William was a good few inches longer than his sister, much like the tall and lanky Sherlock Holmes. Anna, shorter and with softer features, resembled a lot of John. Sometimes, John would state what a heartbreaker their son would grow up to be, the subtle bragging of a proud papa. Meanwhile, Sherlock would look to Anna and see the warmth that radiated from her, the softness of her round face and the resolve in her expressive eyes.

Personality wise, however, the twins cannot be more polar opposite of their physical representative parent if they were to try.

"Could you please wait a few years before pitting the children against one another, dear? I would really like to maintain the illusion of a peaceful family for just one evening."

He shrugs the man off, as per usual, but does cease his commentary.

Smiling in a way that is so much like John but simultaneously so William, the aforementioned looks up to his father with a peaceful look in his eye. For a moment the normally reserved and seemingly cold man is entranced, stunned by this child who John and he could call their own.

Then he burps.

John laughs.

And Sherlock suddenly wishes he was holding his now docile daughter again.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Thank you for reading. :)


End file.
